


For the Mission

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Master/Pet, Public Sex, Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The necessity of a treaty with lecherous, voyeur aliens puts Spock at Jim's feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Acaranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaranna/gifts).



> A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RANNA!!! May your day and year and life be full of splendor. Thanks so much to abbeyjewel for betaing for me. ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When they reach the transporter room, Jim sends Kyle away. He’ll set the controls himself. It’s a bit trickier with a timer, but well worth the discretion. When the doors close behind Kyle, Spock calmly pulls on the ties of his robe, and the thin fabric slithers off his skin, pooling on the floor. He’s left standing in the middle, pure and gloriously bare, only a thick collar around his neck and a trail of chains that fall from it, cutting across and wrapping around his torso like some strange, medieval bondage gear, cut tiny and fine by an expert jeweler. The skirt around his waist is so short and thin and nearly transparent that it may as well not be there at all—Jim can see ever patch of smooth skin, every tuft of dark hair beneath it. Spock bends to retrieve the robe and drapes it loosely over the console, where he’ll retrieve it on their return.

If all goes well, they’ll be back in an hour or two. _If all goes well._ If it doesn’t, they’ll return after they’ve submit themselves to Mrennenimus VII’s odd and cruel penal system, then released to report their failure back to Starfleet. There, either the Klingons or Romulans will resume their talks with the Mrennenimus VII government, a treaty will be signed, a powerful race will be added to the enemy arsenal and Starfleet will have another system off-limits, unable to fly through or trade with or trust in any capacity.

This mission is of utmost importance, and that’s the only reason Jim’s able to do this. He sets the transporter controls and walks towards the platform, already reaching for Spock’s collar as he walks. One of the chains—a long, free hanging one—Jim pulls towards his belt. His own garb, though not that different from a common Earth open button-up shirt (plaid, in this instance) and tight jeans, is also done up in the Mrennenimian style. He clips the end of the small chain, the leash, to one of the ringlets on his belt, and Spock, following, kneels down beside him.

They’re the picture of Mrennenimian diplomats: a wealthy ‘dom’ and his _pet_. Mrennenimians don’t believe they have slavery, and the Federation relationship is too tenuous for Jim to afford judgments on their culture. He does what he has to do for the good of his people, and that’s the only thing that holds his back straight with his t’hy’la knelt at his feet like a dog.

The transporter whirs into activation, and Jim’s world dissolves around him. It glitters back into open scenery what feels like a split-second later. His feet, spread on the hard, white tile, feel like they never left the ground. Jim steps off the landing platform, and Spock follows on hands and knees, down into the open hallway off the government port. The wall behind him is so cut with decorative designs that it might as well be all one glass window, and the dazzling purple sunset washes through the tropical forest, down along the shining floor. Jim eyes the tall columns and sculpted pillars with only mild interest: what he’s really trying to do is not look down, so he doesn’t have to face the reality of what he’s dong.

 _Spock agreed to it_ , he reminds himself. It was an important mission. If Jim didn’t have a pet, the government wouldn’t take him seriously, wouldn’t deal with him at all. They said as much. Appearing ‘civilized’ and respectful of their culture is tantamount. And who else could Jim have taken? He needs his best with him. He may need an analytical mind if treaties are to be whipped out over dinner, which they very well could be, and he needs the historian, philosopher, mediator, balance that his first officer brings him. ...And if he’d brought yeoman Rand or Ensign Chekov or really any other of his officers, how could he sleep at night? Spock is the _logical_ choice.

Spock sits on neatly folded legs with admirable posture; when Jim looks down at him, he doesn’t look back, instead staring straight forward. He probably finds the alien architecture, entirely functional yet undeniable beautiful, _fascinating._

“Captain!”

Though curvaceous, extravagantly clad natives are milling to and fro, tugging ‘pets’ along behind them, none pay him any mind. So it gives Jim a start when a short, burly woman comes down the left end of the corridor, strutting right towards him. The man that scuttles after her is attached to her belt the same way Spock is, though the chain between that and his collar is much longer than Spock’s. Jim has a new flicker of guilt over miscalculating; he could’ve at least given Spock more leeway. It isn’t as though Spock actually needs a short leash, after all; he’s not going to run away. Perhaps the man attached to the stout woman needs it for something else; she’s moving very quickly, and he has to clamber to compensate, slowed as he is on all fours. Jim notes that his kneecaps and palms seem to have a leather substance to them—perhaps natural padding born in or grown or altered for this purpose. The woman stops just short of Jim and thrusts her hand directly into the sky. Recognizing the greeting from the mission briefing, Jim mirrors it.

“Captain Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise,” he recites before lowering his hand. The woman, dressed in similar slacks and an open shirt with an argyle sort of pattern, keeps hers up. Her belt is so adorned in draping chains and trinkets and perhaps-medals that it’s a wonder it didn’t sound like a symphony when she ran over.

“Minister Narloni of the United Mrennenimus Coalition.” Her hand drops, falling to her side. Jim’s eyes follow the movement to where her pet is sitting, dressed as scantily as Spock, eyeing the Vulcan at Jim’s feet. Spock, naturally, isn’t bothering to look back. “We’ve prepared for your arrival, of course. You studied our transmission? Now that you’ve arrived, the feast may begin immediately. The proposed treaty, of course, will be considered by our High Minister based upon your actions tonight. You do understand that we will expect you to fully and accurately represent your Federation, yes?”

“Yes,” Jim nods tightly. It’s a broad statement. Unlike most Mrennenimians, no two Federation citizens are alike, and Jim can’t really portray them all _accurately_. But he’ll do his best to represent the Federation’s interests, and that’s enough. Minister Narloni smiles at him, and he risks asking, “You’ve already seen the representatives of our neighbours...?”

The smile falls immediately. Minister Narloni makes a thistly sort of snort through the universal translator. “Yes we have. To be frank, Captain, the Klingon ‘ambassador’ was hardly a civilized man. One of his pets actually tried to hump Minister Charon’s new pup! Monstrous thing, but of course, the punishment the Klingon administered was quite unreasonable.” Another derisive sniff, then she straightens out, reapplying the politician’s smile. “The Romulan ambassador, however, was quite an interesting individual. And the pet she brought! Quite a specimen. Fully adept in all the things we expect any decent civilization to impart on their submissive culture. Good breeding, too. Very attractive.” With a pause, she looks down and adds, an amused look on her scrunched face, “He looked rather like yours, in fact. There’s something about the head that’s a bit different than your species, Captain, though I can’t put my finger on it.”

“The pointed ears,” Jim suggests, knowing the Romulan-Vulcan similarity. The Mrennenimians, though humanoid in appearance, have only little holes in the back of their head to hear out of: no discernable ear lobes. Minister Narloni makes a pleased noise.

“Oh yes, that’s it. Bit of a different arch to the eyebrows too, I suppose. Still. Yours is very nice. What’s his name?”

Even though Jim knows Spock wouldn’t approve of a lie, he toys with the idea of giving one for the sake of withholding Spock’s dignity. Knowing he can’t, he pushes out, “Spock.” He doesn’t allow himself to add the ‘commander’ title.

“Spock,” Minister Narloni croons, bending down with a hand on her knees. She reaches a hand toward Spock, and Jim notes the way all of Spock’s muscles tense, though someone who didn’t know him probably wouldn’t notice. Minister Narloni, oblivious to Spock’s usual dignity and aversion to touch, pets the top of Spock’s head, much the way a human would pet their dog. She even scratches lightly behind his ear, and Spock’s face twitches before struggling to be passive again. Jim, feeling slightly sick, wants to look away but can’t.

When Minister Narloni cups Spock’s chin, tilting his face up, Jim coughs. It doesn’t have the desired effect; she ignores him and continues to stroke Spock’s cheek with her thumb, sighing in a put-on, babyish voice, “You look like a good boy, Spock. Are you going to be good for your master tonight?”

As Spock wasn’t spoken to by his master, he doesn’t talk. He read the Mrennenimian file more thoroughly than anyone on the ship. Jim, who studied the same papers and knows he can’t, has the urge to tug Spock behind him and protect his touch-telepath from the prying, greasy paws of this backwards race. By the time Minister Narloni straightens out again, Spock’s face is as closed off as ever, and Jim knows there’s a battle going on inside. He forces his attention back to order and tells himself this is vital.

“The feast, Minister?”

“Of course.” She wipes her hand off on her pants as though touching Spock might give her fleas. The man at her feet, a small redhead with freckles not unlike a leopard’s spots, looks up at her imploringly, evidently wanting his turn. She doesn’t spare him a second glance and merely turns. He follows briskly after, and Jim takes a minute to follow.

Jim wants to apologize for everything already, but they’re in public. Spock starts moving first, and the little jerk on Jim’s belt reminds him to follow.

The hallway Minister Narloni takes them down is completely curved and sloping down, like descending a giant spiral. The walls they pass are pearly white, though the people that walk by are adorned in every colour of the spectrum. It gets slowly hotter the farther they go, until Jim’s glad his shirt is open. At least it’ll be more comfortable for Spock. Spock keeps tight to Jim’s side, and Jim tries not to look at him. Even in the peripherals, his lithe form is too enticing. The light around them comes from mounted wall and ceiling structures, casting shadows every which way, and the warm glow basks over Spock’s skin, perfectly highlighting all his muscles. Jim’s eyes are drawn to each shift of Spock’s shoulder blades, each subtle arch of his spine. The curves of his ass are easy to see beneath the skirt, scrunched up so high by his efforts to walk that it barely covers his cheeks. Jim half expects them to be flushed green, but Spock hides his embarrassment well. Once, Jim stalls half a step back, just to catch the view of Spock’s long, free cock swinging between his thighs. A split second later, Jim, in deeper guilt than ever, quickens his pace again. Spock matches it.

By the time they reach the feast hall, there’s a light film of sweat forming in the middle of Jim’s chest and under his armpits and thighs. He’s too disappointed that Spock isn’t sweating. Spock’s used to the heat, and he follows Jim around the outside of the room. Jim follows Minister Narloni, who guides them past the arranged tables, lowered and without chairs, though an array of plush pillows lines the floor, all in rich yellows and browns. The ring of tables is maybe the size of Jim’s bridge, the center of which is carved out in a shallow sphere, carpeted and extravagantly designed. The walls are lined in pillars and high windows, where the sky outside is a deep crimson. Many Mrennenimians are already seated, but Minister Narloni takes them to the table at the opposite end from the door.

There, a tall, regal woman climbs to her feet. She looks perhaps twice Jim’s age, but it’s always difficult to tell with aliens. Her long, curled green hair tumbles over her ebony skin, and her striped shirt is open to show her stomach and cleavage, just barely covering the bulk of her breasts. She has three pets chained to her belt, all of different colours and perhaps genders. As her hand lifts gracefully into the air, Minister Narloni announces, “High Minister, this is Captain Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise. Captain, this is the grand High Minister, bless.”

“Bless,” Jim repeats ceremonially, wishing this wasn’t one of those funny planets where a certain title can replace a given name. It somehow adds a distance, makes the high minister more unapproachable; she knows his name and he can’t know hers. He puts his hand in the air anyway, and she lowers hers.

“May you have better manners than your predecessors, Captain.” The high minister has a nasal voice. As there haven’t been any Federation representatives before him, Jim assumes she means the Klingon and Romulan parties.

“I plan to, your grace.” The translator spits out the address close enough. The high minister’s full lips twist into a grin. Her twinkling eyes sweep over Jim, head to foot, take in every little detail, and move on to Spock.

Jim’s stomach tightens.

“You have a pretty pet.” Worse than minister Narloni, the high minister reaches out with both hands, grabbing Spock’s ears in her long fingers. Spock, to his credit, remains passive and allows the touch. It lingers. The high minister runs her thumbs along the curve of Spock’s lobes, up to the tips, which she pinches, tugging lightly, and Spock, to Jim’s horror, barely manages to stifle a wince. The high minister strokes back through his hair and inevitably comes back to his ears, and Jim can’t do a thing but stand still and tense and repeat his explicit Starfleet priority orders in his head. A faint green starts to grow in Spock’s cheeks, and Jim can _feel_ how uncomfortable he is. But Jim knows Spock would tell him to stand down.

Jim’s gritting his teeth so tightly that his jaw’s sore. He keeps his lips closed to hide it. The high minister brings one index finger to Spock’s bow lips, traces their lines, and weighs the bottom one down. Spock opens obediently; he’d do anything Starfleet told him was necessary. He’ll follow inappropriate protocol, strange alien traditions, suffer shame and extreme discomfort. The high minister runs her finger around Spock’s mouth over and over, forcing it into a tiny, perfect ‘o.’ Then she trails down his chin, tracing his elegant throat. Jim’s nails are digging into his palm. If she goes much farther—

The high minister’s hands have just strayed to Spock’s shoulders when a tiny man a few tables down calls, “May the sun always shine.”

The high minister removes her hands from Spock’s pale skin and sighs, “May the sun always shine.”

Jim’s so busy holding himself back that it takes him a second to place what’s going on. A look from Spock brings the memory back like a cue card: the symbol for the start of the feast. He takes his honorary seat left of the high minister, a young man with long hair on his left. Minister Narloni flitters off to an open seat a table away. The pillows Jim sits in are high and ridiculously soft, comfortable, and finally he’s on level with Spock again. ...Until Spock lies down, like the other pets. He curls around Jim’s body, bare legs spread out behind them, arms curled up beneath his head and face next to Jim’s thigh. This puts most of the other pets out of sight, hidden by the tables. Jim looks around at the sea of diverse aliens and knows he’ll have to be careful; they’re a very aesthetic species, but none of them is as beautiful as Spock. Not even close.

One of the high minister’s pets crawls around the high minister’s body and bats a hand at Spock’s side. Jim puts his hand protectively over Spock’s waist, and the other pet moves off, discouraged. Jim doesn’t move his hand, even though he can feel Spock’s eyes on him, and he looks for himself at the man who first called out about the sun.

“My fellow ministers... and honoured guest,” the man starts, gesturing to Jim, who raises his hand and nods in acknowledgement. “We’ve been blessed with another good rotation. May the next be as good as the last.” Several hands lift: the Mrennenimian version of clapping. With a broad grin on his wide face, the speaker looks right at Jim, finishing his speech. “And may our new allies—whoever they may be, fit our mesh well.” All hands lift, Jim’s almost as high as the high minister’s, and the speaker sits down.

The feast begins.

The music starts up so suddenly and inexplicably that it gives Jim a start. There aren’t any musicians; it must be a transmission, but it echoes around the ground hall clear as day. Waiters filter into the hall, carrying tray after tray of heaping food, weaving in between diplomats to line the tables. Jim half expects the polished wood to sag under the pressure. When his own table’s food arrives, he notices immediately something unusual; it’s all finger-food. Everything is neatly rolled up in cylinders or balls or hardened-sauce-covered fruits. The bubbling drinks poured are the only exception. If Bones were here, he’d be running a medical tricorder over every last piece and grumbling about the unsanitary nature of buffets.

But Bones isn’t here, because Jim would never do that to Spock. He sees the way the other diplomats feed their pets, and he follows. He plucks what looks like a chocolate-covered grape out of a large glass bowl and brings it to Spock’s face. Spock obediently opens his mouth and sucks the fruit inside, moist tongue brushing Jim’s fingertips in the process. Jim has to suppress a shiver. He moves his fingers over to Spock’s hair and pets him gently, exactly as the aliens would expect.

In the center of the hall, various pets are being unleashed and nudged down. Five or six pad down to the middle and begin to dance, swaying rhythmically to the music. It reminds Jim faintly of his experience with Orion slave girls. Jim watches them for only a few minutes, finding some pleasure in the practiced sensuality of their movements. But he’s here on business, and he turns to the high minister.

“Your grace, if I may reiterate my government’s—”

“You may not,” she answers, waving a dismissive hand at him and intently staring down at the pit. “A feast is no time for politics. The only information I require from you at this time is your ability to respect our traditions.”

Jim fights back his natural irritation and answers diplomatically, “Very well.” He looks back at the table and decides he’s hungrier than he thought.

The drink is cool and refreshing, pleasant in the heat. Jim downs a quarter of his glass before putting it back and glancing down at Spock. Vulcans can go a considerable amount of time without water, but Jim doubts it can be very pleasant. He returns to eating finger foods until he sees one of the Mrennenimians give their pet a drink, and he carefully studies the procedure. The pet drapes himself over his master’s lap, head up and mouth open, and the master pours the drink in, not allowing the brim to touch the pet’s lips. Just imagining doing that with Spock makes Jim’s face feel hotter.

He debates not doing it. He knows that his argument for it is only half quenching Spock’s thirst, the other being an excuse for him to have Spock in his lap with an open mouth. No one ever called Jim Kirk innocent. In some ways, he was a horrible choice for this mission. In other ways, he’s perfect.

He pops one more roll into his mouth—it’s sweet and crunchy and reminiscent of honey—and drops his sticky hand down to Spock’s face. Brushing over Spock’s cheek, he asks quietly, “Are you thirsty?”

Spock’s dark eyes peer up at him. He’s observant, but he probably can’t see over the table, and might not know how he’s supposed to act. Jim leaves the ball in Spock’s court. Spock takes his time deciding—likely weighing out the options—and Jim shamefully spends the time taking in the sight of Spock’s body. Even though he knows what Spock looks like naked, entirely so, it’s rare to see it like this, curled languidly around him, purposeful and deliberately elegant. He isn’t used to seeing Spock in chains either, ornamental or otherwise, though their various missions have landed them in more than one dungeon over the years. Even more rare is to see Spock like this in _public_ , and though it should make him feel sorry for Spock, it only makes him more enticed.

Finally, Spock decides, “I am, master.” Jim has a sharp intake of breath, and Spock, without being told what to do, shifts back up to his hands.

He maneuvers the short distance around Jim’s body, careful to keep his legs away from the high minister’s pets on the other side. When he puts his hands on Jim’s leg, the fingers are curled in like paws. Spock rests his cheek on Jim’s thighs and turns his face up, mouth opening wide. 

“He has a nice mouth,” the man on Jim’s other side comments, and Jim’s head snaps to look. The man’s lecherous face is concentrated solely on Spock, and he smirks when he says, “You should put some decorations on his tongue. A little stud, maybe a nice ring...”

Jim’s stupid brain immediately pictures it; Spock’s velvety tongue sporting some inane piercing, just for Jim to look at. Like most thinks concerning Spock, it’s an image Jim likes. Not as much from another man, though. Jim forces a short smile and says, “Maybe another time.” Then pointedly turns away.

Spock, like the good boy he is, is still waiting in Jim’s lap, lips stretched wide and tongue lax along the bottom of his mouth. Jim resists the urge to stroke it and instead takes his glass, bringing it over. He keeps it a few centimeters above Spock’s waiting face and tilts it, slow and steady, careful not to spill. The sparkling liquid filters down into Spock’s waiting mouth. Jim would probably choke from the awkward angle, but Spock manages well. As soon as it looks like Spock needs to swallow, Jim stops pouring long enough to let him. Then he gives Spock another round, and Jim puts the glass away without looking, distracted by the movement of Spock’s jaw closing, adam’s apple bobbing. There’s a moment where neither one of them moves, and Jim wonders if he can just keep Spock there.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Minister Narloni pecking her pet’s face. It gives Jim the excuse he needs, and before he can talk himself out of it, he bends down to catch Spock’s mouth.

He doesn’t use tongue, doesn’t linger, because he doesn’t know if he can, but that simple touch is reassuring. Spock presses back just slightly, enough to tell Jim that he’s alright. Pulling back is difficult. Spock’s lips are wet from being kissed and catching drink, and he looks so perfect that Jim almost can’t blame all the Mrennenimians giving him attention. Spock turns his head to nuzzle into Jim’s stomach, perhaps something pets are supposed to do after feeding. It must be. Spock doesn’t _nuzzle_ into him otherwise, feline ancestry or no. Jim enjoys the sensation more than he should, and he’s disappointed when Spock’s finally finished and slips out of Jim’s lap.

He lies at Jim’s side instead, like before, and Jim brushes the straight-cut bangs across his forehead and the sharp curve of an ear that all aliens seem to think is so very interesting.

The music and dancing go on, and Jim spends most of his time alternating between eating and bringing small morsels to Spock’s lips. Spock licks everything away, never leaving crumbs. Though he’s sure eating while lying down can’t be comfortable, it’s an arrangement Jim wouldn’t mind having more often. If Spock were amenable, of course. And Spock could sit, perhaps at his feet, between his legs, while Jim sat in a chair at the table and passed Spock scraps under it...

Jim hides his shiver behind another drink. It isn’t right to treat Spock like an animal. He knows that. But he isn’t accustomed to lying to himself, not over these sorts of feelings, and he _knows_ that he’ll spend too many nights with these memories. Jim makes an executive decision to stop feeding Spock, just because the intimate contact—particularly so for a Vulcan, who have a special interest in hands—is too much for Jim to take. He settles instead for trying to concentrate on the gyrating bodies before him, instead of the steady rise and fall of Spock’s bare chest with every breath. One of his chains is looped just over his dusty nipple, the bud hard enough in the open air to catch it. His smooth chin rests on his arm, body turned to Jim, turned around Jim: his owner.

One of the high minister’s pets comes too close again, and Jim faux-casually drops his arm back over Spock’s body, leaving it there. His fingers brush along Spock’s spine, and he holds Spock’s hip. He vacillates between petting Spock possessively and forcing himself to be still. Spock doesn’t move either way: merely plays the role that Starfleet’s prescribed him, to the letter and unemotionally.

More than a dozen different pets have made their way in and out of the pit by the time the high minister stands. As most of the diplomats haven’t been talking to each other beyond mutual pet-worship, Jim hasn’t tried speaking to her again. It makes him more nervous, not knowing what sort of person she is; he’s a good judge of character, but he needs interaction for that. There’s something sly on her face that sets his warning bells off. She spreads her arms and addresses the hall, which causes everyone’s hands to rise in the regular salute. “Ministers. Friends. Loyal pets.” She glances down at Jim to add, “Guests.” He raises his hand to match the others, and she shows teeth in her grin. “We are delighted today to welcome a Federation agent into our midst. You will be pleased to know that, until this point, he has not hassled me with the supposed merits of his empire. He has also not, obviously, started any riots.” There’s a shallow murmur of agreement in the room; Jim can guess which representative did what. “This is good. He has fit well into the luxuries our council has to offer. But the night is only halfway through, and the real test begins. He has enjoyed observation. It is time for participation.” She raises both hands, and the hall mirrors it; Jim imagines it’s the equivalent of cheering loud enough for an encore.

Except that no one said anything about participation, and he has absolutely no idea what that’s going to entail. He looks at the high minister carefully, not letting any surprise or concern onto his face; whatever he has to do, he’ll do it; he’s come this far. He tells himself that chances are, he’s done worse. But she asks the one thing he can’t offer: “It is time to see if the Federation allows the training of pets to our level.”

Jim’s mouth falls open. He’s halfway through a protest when she turns to him and overrides his attempt to speak. “You _will_ have your pet dance for us, won’t you, Captain?” she implores, eyes twinkling. She gestures for the pit, where the remaining pets are slinking back to their masters.

Spock is rising back to his hands and knees, but Jim lays an automatic hand on the small of his back, holding him down. “Now, wait a minute—”

“ _Captain_ ,” the high minister purrs, and it seems like a challenge, like she _wants_ him to run and fail, “surely you didn’t think you’d obtain a treaty with a race as powerful as us by simply eating our food and eyeing our pets. It isn’t as if we’re asking much. We understand you do not have creatures biologically inclined to this, but our ways are very tempting; surely you have many that willingly fall into the role, and I am sure you will have been intelligent enough to select one. I simply ask for a demonstration of your understanding of our culture. A meager contribution...”

Which would be fine, except that she isn’t asking that at all: she’s asking for a demonstration of _Spock,_ someone Jim already loved; he couldn’t choose another for such an intimate mission. Spock isn’t something Jim’s entitled to give away, and he wouldn’t want to, even if he could.

But Spock presses up against his hand, and they have one of those moments, one of those tiny spaces in time where the world seems to stop, and they communicate without words. It isn’t even a Vulcan bond; it’s a pure and inexplicable extrapolation of their connection. Inside that cocoon, Spock tells Jim they have to do this. It’s bigger than them; it’s for the Federation. Spock is unemotional and unaffected, Spock understands his duties, Spock won’t mind. Jim will have to be strong enough to share. Jim’s resolve cracks, and he lets his hand fall off of Spock’s back.

Spock straightens. He looks at Jim, their eyes lock, and Jim’s hand, moving numbly on it’s own accord, unclips the chain around his belt. It clatters down to join the other array of chains along Spock’s neck, and then Spock’s crawling off. He ducks underneath the table and pads down the sloping floor, just like all the other pets before him. There’s a stiffness to his movements that Jim doubts the others see, but _he_ knows. Spock is on autopilot. Duty’s overtaken him.

He uncoils at the center of the pit, rising to his feet, at his full height for the first time on this planet. Under the bright lights, his small skirt offers little coverage, and there’s more than one catcall from the audience; Spock is now a beautiful, three-dimensional display, set at all their mercy. Jim watches with bated breath. Hopefully, he knows more about Mrennenimian dancing than Jim does.

And, of course, he must know, because he flows so easily into it when the music crescendos. Suddenly Spock’s body is snapping to life, and he twists to arc his spine backwards, to extend one hand and one leg. It reminds Jim of a ballerina, though Spock is more solid, sturdier, and the movements he begins to wind into are less smooth, more tribal. He’s elegant in his own way, but powerful in his steps, and when he turns, it’s with both speed and proficiency. He moves like a trained Orion, catching every beat with the sensual sway of his hips, every nuance in the enticing draw of his fingers. The only thing the music doesn’t touch is his face, which remains demure and closed. Jim realizes belatedly that he’s leaning over the table. The alien music is a strange, foreign composition he can’t get his head around, but his eyes know _Spock_ and latch on to the image. Spock must’ve taken lessons at some point in his life.

Jim tries to imagine Sarek taking a young, teenage Spock to a dance studio and teaching him to touch his toes, to bend backwards onto the floor and bring his legs into the air. It doesn’t seem very likely, but the evidence is in front of his face. But then, Spock’s always been good at just about everything. Great. He’s amazing, and before long, the murmuring in the hall is twice as loud as it was before. Jim blocks out all the words—the hungry growls and the laughing speculations and the dirty musings of exactly what Vulcan anatomy really looks like, tastes like, _feels_ like. Spock dances and dances, given no pause—the music isn’t broken into individual songs. It’s just one long, lilting trap, and Jim, mesmerized, watches _his_ Vulcan dance with a mixture of desire and fierce jealousy. He wants to run down to the center and scoop Spock up in his arms, protect Spock properly, almost as much as he wants to stumble down and grind Spock into the floor.

Spock’s movements take him in all directions, but every time he faces Jim, their eyes lock. Whatever emotions Spock’s trying to hide slip in those moments. Jim’s insides are burning.

Finally, the high minister calls, “Next,” and though Jim doesn’t know what that means, Spock seems to. He finally moves from the center, gliding towards the tables, towards Jim, still dancing, swirling in tight circles with his arms outstretched and poised, snaking up above his head, then down along his torso, fingers drawing tantalizing lines across his skin. Jim has to resist the urge to reach out, to open his arms for Spock to come into.

But Spock comes to the high minister instead, diverting at the last moment away from Jim’s reach. He spins slowly with his legs brushing the table, and the high minister, to Jim’s horror, reaches out to stroke Spock’s thigh. Spock’s face is tight, but he doesn’t stop moving. Jim’s fists tighten against the tabletop, but Spock still doesn’t come towards him.

Spock moves away, dancing, instead, along the rim of the circle. He stays close to the diplomats, and each minister he passes reaches out to touch his creamy skin, run greedy hands up his legs, and Spock is careful to keep his arms high, his dance protecting as much of him as it can. But it can’t protect all of him. Not from this bizarre, erotic, terrible tradition. Jim has to wonder if Spock cut this part out of the reports just to save himself the shame. The farther away Spock gets, the more Jim hurts. He hurts for Spock more than anything. His beautiful Vulcan surrenders himself to feel squeeze after caress of hungry aliens, all with wide eyes and bared teeth, like they’re going to devour Spock whole.

At halfway through the circle, the _longing_ really sets in; Spock is moving back to him. The melody dictates his speed; he’s in pace with the music. Jim wants to add bass and drums to rocket Spock to him, but instead, he’s helpless. The same invisible force that keeps Spock going holds Jim still.

Finally, Spock passes the man on Jim’s left, the one who wants to pierce Spock’s tongue, and Jim deliberately holds Spock’s eyes so Spock won’t have to see the same look on the other man’s face. At Jim, Spock rises, still dancing, and places a foot on the table. It hikes his skirt up, gives Jim a flash of a very sexual view, and then Spock’s vaulting over the table.

Jim doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing: caught in Spock’s spell.

Spock descends into Jim’s lap, hips swaying, grinding, moving down against the bulge in Jim’s pants. He didn’t even realize he was getting so hard, but it’s no surprise, and he’s _very_ aware of it the second Spock’s ass rubs into him. His arms rise of their own accord, latching onto Spock’s waist. Spock leans into Jim and turns to bring his lips to Jim’s ear, close enough that no one else will hear. Spock whispers to him, “I must ride you.”

Jim shivers and clutches tighter to Spock’s lap, not trusting himself to speak; he can’t be quiet enough.

“I am sorry, Captain, but it is their rite. They will not form a treaty with a man they do not know... intimately...”

Without meaning to, Jim groans, “ _Spock_.” Then he grits his teeth tighter; he needs to act accordingly. And Spock’s just a _pet_ to them.

“I would not wish another pet to ride you,” Spock continues, so quiet that only their tenuous bond allows Jim to decipher all the words. There’s no jealousy in Spock’s tone, but Jim can _feel_ it, and he presses his nose into the crook of Spock’s neck, inhaling Spock’s scent and essence. He wouldn’t want to take anyone else, either. “You may treat me well, but you must not speak to me as an equal.” And Jim knows exactly what that means; he can’t say what he wants to, can’t say, _I love you_ , which he wants to, so desperately.

The only consolation is that he’s sure Spock _knows_ , and Jim nods against Spock’s face, unsure if the Mrennenimians will understand the gesture. It’s to tell Spock he understands. He’ll do what he must. He tries to block out everything else. If it were just the two of them, alone, together, and playing some sweet, kinky game, then he’d be delighted to get a lap dance from the one man he’d never expect to give one.

But they’re in a room full of perverted voyeurs, and Spock is wearing chains around his neck and shoulders, and Spock is gyrating his hips like a Risian porn star because Starfleet told him this was the best way. Jim tries to take solace in the fact that no one else could do it better—a Klingon ambassador could never have this grace, and there is no Romulan this sensual. The Federation will prosper.

It’s hard to think about the Federation with Spock moving down his jaw line, placing small kisses and little licks. Jim drops his chin and lowers his voice to ask, “Can I kiss you?” Spock nods, and Jim lets loose, littering the side of Spock’s face. As soon as he starts, he can’t stop; he’s opened Pandora’s box. He’s kissing Spock all over, every piece of skin he can manage, mussing up Spock’s perfect bangs and catching Spock between the eyes and making Spock’s eyelids flutter closed as Jim catches too high up his cheek. Spock’s body continues to grind its way into Jim’s lap, and only years of experience and practice keep Jim from trembling, hold him back from bucking up and humping Spock freely. Spock’s fingers tug down the hem of Jim’s pants, pushing them beneath the belt. He doesn’t touch the belt, so Jim doesn’t either. Jim doesn’t have the wherewithal to help. He’s busy clutching at Spock’s sides and back, tracing Spock’s spine, shifting chains around. When Spock frees Jim’s shaft from its confines, Jim can’t find it in him to be embarrassed. Everyone in the room is in some state of undress, and Spock’s far more so than he is, and he’s too turned on to care.

He probably shouldn’t be. He should probably be disgusted by the blatant, unwanted exhibitionism, but no one ever accused James Kirk of being too vanilla. There’s a part of him that’s excited at having everyone know just how well he’s done: what a perfect mate he’s secured. But then he reminds himself that Spock isn’t a _mate_ to them; Spock’s little more than a semi-sentient toy, and that fractionally kills the mood, not as much as it should.

Spock strokes Jim in his hand, squeezes and rubs, and even dry, it feels devastatingly _good_. Jim breathes, “Lube?” Spock shakes his head.

“An evolutionary solution. Their pets are naturally prepared. What I lack in anal lubrication I made up for in foresight.” _Anal lubrication_. Only Spock could spit that out like a computer and still have Jim rock hard. Foresight? Spock prepared himself, then. He should’ve asked. Jim would’ve helped. Then Jim shivers and thinks, no; that would’ve been a bad idea; it would’ve been a distraction, and they would’ve been late in coming here, tousled and spent. Now they’re both virile and ready, and Spock lifts up on his knees. Though his arms are busy with his task, the rest of his body still attempts to keep beat with the music. It’s not so much sex as a _show._ One that every other person in this hall gets to see. But then, Jim tells himself, that’s where it stops; he won’t let any of them touch Spock again.

Spock scrunches his skirt up his hips, small as it is, and it reveals his own proud cock and ripe balls, impressively hard, against all odds. Jim looks up at Spock in surprise and finds a fire buried under the mask. Even with the audience, Spock hasn’t broken the pattern; he’s _always_ grown hard for Jim. Maybe he’s making the most of it. Maybe the alien tradition requires his pleasure and he’s schooled himself into it. It doesn’t matter. Jim’s pleased; he’s not sure he could go through with it otherwise. He admires the view and waits with baited breath while Spock hovers over him, pushing him into place.

Spock lines himself up, places his hands on Jim’s shoulders, rolls his hips continuously in Jim’s grip and purrs, “May I please you, master?” It’s loud enough for those around Jim to hear.

Jim’s tongue is thick. Or his mouth is dry. In lieu of an answer, he leans up to peck Spock’s mouth, infusing all his affection. Spock kisses him back and drops down.

The kiss goes straight to hell. Spock envelops him whole, all in one swift, efficient movement, and though his ass is slick with lube, it’s no less tight, no less hot and stifling and utterly _wonderful_. Jim breaks off in a gasp that transitions into a roar, a scream to warn off any lion. The pressure of Spock’s ass claws at him, squeezes at him, sucks him in and holds him, and Jim’s cock throbs in rapture. Spock’s always had the perfect ass. Maybe Vulcans are like that: built for the ultimate pleasure, or maybe it’s just _Spock_ , built like a puzzle piece to fit so _rightly_ into Jim. When they make love, like this or like usual, just the two of them in Spock’s too-hot quarters or Jim’s grand, captain’s bed, they stop being captain and first officer and simply become _one_ : a wholeness they can only achieve in each other’s arms. The bond that always lingers between them spikes; they may as well have been through _pon farr_ and swore before T’Pau to belong to one another for life. Even as Jim is inside Spock’s body, he can feel Spock inside his head, and he presses back, joining them together. Spock whispers, _T’hy’la_ , along Jim’s mind, and Jim envelops him. In their own way, their own little world, they are alone with one another, and no one else can see them, touch them. Jim holds Spock close and offers comfort, solidarity. They’re together.

Spock falls around Jim’s shoulders, cuddling into him like a cat or vine that’s weathered the centuries along castle walls, molded to every crack and curve. His dance takes him half off Jim’s cock, then presses back down, not slamming but sliding, spiraling on and off. The corkscrew effect is heaven. Jim pulls Spock tighter against him, the sides of his plaid shirt falling to make way for skin-on-skin. He can feel Spock’s heart beating against his side, their dual breathing driving their chests against one another. They’re locked in tight, and Spock makes love to Jim’s body like a god: Jim a willing sacrifice.

In Jim’s mind, Spock rolls against him. Jim holds Spock close and listens while Spock moans, releases a shuddering mass of pent up _want_ : the primal ferocity of raw emotion struggling against his Vulcan control; the environment is trying to unleash him. Jim could handle that intensity and has in the past. But this isn’t a place where they can give in to tribal passions. Spock fights for his logic and tells Jim his pain, whispers tautly, _I can feel their lust when they touch me._ The touch-telepathy. Jim knows and gently strokes Spock’s back, kisses his face, tries to keep his own lust in check. _It is very strong. They are... they want things from me that no Vulcan should give._

 _Other than to his captain,_ Jim quips, meaning to be light and humourous, but his own desire turns it dirty and fierce. Spock’s ass clenches around him, and Jim’s world momentarily lapses into whiteness; it’s hard to sit up straight with all the ecstasy coursing through him. He wants to fall back in the pillows and buck up into Spock, fill him good and tight, but instead he keeps his back straight, sits like a proper diplomat receiving only a common favour. Not the love of his life. Spock is _so good_ —always is—and Jim’s never felt him _dance_ like this. Spock’s body is worshipping Jim’s completely. When Jim kisses Spock’s shoulder, he sees a minister over it, sitting across the room at another table, touching himself out in the open. It makes Jim growl and pull Spock tighter to him. He doesn’t want to share.

Spock doesn’t want to either. From the way the other pets please their masters, Jim knows that curling around them isn’t necessary. Spock’s draping himself over Jim to block out all the others, to be immersed in only Jim. Spock is touching Jim everywhere, but Spock sighs, _I accept your lust, t’hy’la. It matches my own._

Jim moans and mumbles back, _It’s not just lust. I love you, too._

 _As do I, beloved._ The words reverberate loud in Jim’s head. It’s as if all the other instances of sexual telepathy have enhanced their own; Spock’s taken them all and channeled it straight at Jim, funneling into a tornado of shared consciousness. They move together. Spock dances on Jim’s cock and Jim writhes up into him, stroking him and kissing him. When Jim’s hands make their way around to Spock’s front, encircling Spock’s shaft beneath the scrunched skirt, Spock has a sharp intake of breath that isn’t usually there. Jim can feel him shuddering; the control is broken. Jim tries to be soothing and fondles him lovingly, tells him it’s okay to feel good, Jim wants him to, Jim loves him so much. Spock doesn’t protest. They find their pleasure together.

The other eyes in the hall should slow them. But it doesn’t work that way; the stench of sex and the smoky feeling of eroticism in the open air rushes Jim towards the finish line. He takes Spock with him, playing Spock’s dick like an instrument attuned to Spock’s swaying. Spock’s dance is more subdued now; most of him is more caught up in Jim’s pleasure and draping himself around Jim’s body. But his hips and back still try. Then Jim is kissing his cheek over and over and murmuring, both aloud and through their bond, “ _Come for me, please. I don’t want this alone._ ”

Spock has always been good to Jim. He trembles in Jim’s arm, and then he’s breaking. He makes a small mewl: a stifled growl, and his release shoots out between Jim’s fingers. It splatters both their bare chests, trapped between them short of reaching their chins. Jim pumps Spock faithfully, trying to milk it all out. Spock’s ass spasms around Jim’s buried cock, and it tugs Jim down with him. Jim screams when he comes, heedless of all those around them. He latches onto Spock for dear life and spills himself inside his lover, his pet. Spock clenches and squeezes on purpose, drawing out every last drop and holding it all inside. Jim is so in heaven that it’s difficult to stay up, to think, to breathe. He’s dizzy and heavy and overrun with pleasure.

Coming down is a slow, draining wave, in which he’s still satiated, but painfully aware of their surroundings. Spock lifts off his lap, dripping with lube and cum, and Jim’s cock is still shamefully hard, glistening with liquid. His stomach is sticky with Spock’s release. He’s panting. All eyes are on him, and the way Spock pushes his own skirt down, protecting the pillows from his own mess.

Spock lays himself back down on the floor and leans in to kiss Jim’s stomach, the sticky mess of his own cum latching onto his pretty lips. Jim stares in awe as Spock licks it away, then laps up the rest, soft tongue laving over Jim’s skin. Spock cleans everything and drifts down to Jim’s cock, which he kisses and licks just the same. Jim half wants to shove himself up into Spock’s waiting mouth and fuck that too, but his own tiredness and all those watching hold him back. Spock cleans him well and lovingly tucks him back into his pants, straightening out Jim’s sparse clothing.

Then Spock lays his head on Jim’s lap, throat making a delicious, sweet purring sound. Jim’s sure his cheeks are irrevocably red. Spock’s are faintly tinted green. Spock’s eyelids are heavy, pupils dilated, and he’s breathing hard, but not as hard as Jim. Jim tentatively pets his hair.

The first minister says, “Very nice,” and Jim nearly jumps: the spell’s broken.

He looks at her, too spent to properly frown, and she’s lifting both hands, like most of the Mrennenimians in the hall: more clapping after the show. “You have honoured us with your contribution,” she announces. “Mrennenimus VII will be happy to ally with the Federation.” Jim feels vaguely like he should smile, but doesn’t. As soon as the high minister is finished, she stands up.

Jim doesn’t even get to say thank you. She abruptly sweeps out of the hall, three pets scurrying after. The man on Jim’s left also stands, and so do a few others at the table. The ones that aren’t, Jim realizes, are busy straightening themselves back up and re-leashing their pets. From another table, Minister Narloni calls, “You may transport back at any time, Captain. We will contact you at dawn tomorrow to discuss treaty details.”

Jim mutters numbly, “Agreed.” He lifts a hand first, then she lifts hers, and leaves.

Slowly, the entire hall filters away. Jim and Spock are left where they are, alone, reeling. When the last person’s gone, Spock lifts back to his hands and knees.

Jim comes forward to give him a tight kiss, unsure of which one of them he’s reassuring. Too done to bother with the transporter pad, Jim pulls the communicator from the back of his belt, flips it open, and tells Scotty, “Two to beam up. Transporter room clear.”

“Aye, Captain.” The world sifts away and leaves them on the Enterprise, sitting on the cold, hard floor of the transporter room. The door’s in the midst of closing behind Scotty or whoever it was manning the console, and for a moment, Jim just breathes.

Spock has the nerve to say, completely tonelessly, “You did excellently, Captain.” All Jim can do is laugh, because really, _he_ didn’t do anything. The laugh is more nervous than it should be.

Climbing to his feet, Spock crosses over to wear he left the robe and drapes it back over his shoulders, disappearing into his usual conservative cover. Jim is suddenly the one more exposed, with his open shirt and disheveled look. Usually, he’d head straight from a mission to the bridge, but nothing about this mission has been usual.

Instead, he tells the communicator panel on the wall, “Kirk to bridge. The mission was a success. I will be in my quarters until the next transmission from Mrennenimus VII.”

Uhura, manning the communications console as always, replies, _“Acknowledged, Captain. Congratulations.”_

Jim starts to say, “Thank you, Uh—” but is cut off by Bones’ grouchy voice.

_“Jim, you’ve been on that wacky planet for hours and put who-knows-what alien foods in your system; you and Spock both need to check out through sickb—”_

“Later, Bones,” Jim chirps and succinctly cuts the communication off. Bones doesn’t call back; he must know the futility of it.

Right now, Jim can’t afford to go to sickbay. He can’t afford to be anywhere but with _Spock_ , just Spock, and they have some talking to do. He looks at his t’hy’la and sees the understanding in Spock’s eyes.

Before they head out the door, Spock says aloud, “There is no reason to feel guilty, Captain.” Jim opens his mouth to protest, but Spock plows on, “We were completing a diplomatic mission of high importance.” Well of course, but Jim has so many feelings beyond the line of duty, even if Spock won’t acknowledge them. But then Spock finishes, “Furthermore, I believe we both found the experience to be... pleasurable. There is no need for discontentment over circumstances we cannot control.” And his face says that the discussion’s over; any apologies from Jim will be stubbornly ignored.

Jim just sighs. He only argues with Spock when he has the energy to do it for the fun of it; he rarely ever wins. He takes a step towards the door, and Spock, though no longer chained to his waist, follows.

Jim heads for his own quarters, and Spock, without a word, follows.


End file.
